Tales of Madness Read online

  Tales Of Madness

  A Selection from Luigi Pirandello’s

  Short Stories for a Year

  Translated from the Italian

  and with an Introduction

  by Giovanni R. Bussino

  Dante University Press, Boston

  © Copyright 1984

  By Dante University of America Press

  ISBN 0937832-26-x

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

  Tales of madness.

  I. Title.

  PQ4835.I7T3 1984 853‘912 84-3147

  ISBN 0937832-26x (hard back) ISBN 9780937832264 (2009, paperback)

  E-Book Edition ISBN 9780937832844

  With permission from the Amministrazione Pirandello.

  www. danteunversity. Org

  Dante University Press

  PO Box 812158 Wellesley MA 02482

  Come uno specchio che per se non vede,

  e in cui se stesso ciascheduno mira.

  (Like a mirror which itself is blind,

  but in which each of us himseJf does find.)

  Luigi Pirandello

  (from an autographed portrait, c. 1925)

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Who Did It?

  If

  When I Was Crazy

  The Shrine

  Pitagora’s Misfortune

  Set Fire to the Straw

  A Horse in the Moon

  Fear of Being Happy

  In the Whirlpool

  The Reality of the Dream

  The Train Whistled

  Mrs. Frola and Mr. Ponza,

  Her Son-in-Law

  The Wheelbarrow

  Escape

  Puberty

  Victory of the Ants

  Chronology

  About the Author

  Dedicated to

  Andrew Terzano

  (Foundation)

  To my family and friends

  Introduction

  Madness, howsoever defined, has captured the imagination of man since time immemorial. Accordingly, many writers throughout the centuries have translated the interest, fascination, and concern aroused by this enigmatic condition into impelling, sometimes haunting works of art.

  Among such writers, Luigi Pirandello (1867-1936) is almost unrivaled for the sheer volume of works inspired by this subject, as well as for the diversity of his approaches to it. A versatile author, he developed the theme in a number of his plays, novels, and short stories. He also touched upon it in several of his critical essays and poems.

  The present volume embraces 16 of Pirandello’s short stories — all inspired to some extent by the theme of madness. Since the author wrote approximately 245 stories, many of which deal with madness, our selection, arranged chronologically according to the date of composition, is obviously intended as a representative, not an exhaustive sampling of such works. Some of these tales have never before appeared in English, and those that have, are dispersed in periodicals, anthologies, and sundry collections not always available to the average reader.

  There are no simple formulas by which to grasp the significance of madness in the author’s short stories or, for that matter, in his other works, because madness in Pirandello is an ambiguous, multi-faceted theme which defies clear-cut categorization. It is particularly elusive because in many of his works the traditional dichotomy madness/sanity is greatly blurred and occasionally the meanings of its constituents are paradoxically reversed. Moreover, it is sometimes almost inextricably bound to one or more of Pirandello’s other major themes, e.g., unrequited love, jealousy, encroaching age, and death. Nevertheless, the following observations, for the most part derived from a comprehensive reading of the author’s collected works, should at least prove helpful in understanding the general parameters of the subject.

  Throughout his vast opus Pirandello projected various mental conditions as madness, ranging from the most lucid psychological anomaly to the most serious form of dementia. Although his artistic vision at times transcends the more rigorous views of psychiatry — Pirandello was primarily interested in madness as a metaphor of man’s existential state — he treated the problem of irrationality with uncanny knowledge and astonishing insights, thereby revealing his profound understanding of the human psyche and its intricate mechanisms.

  Some of the ideas he used in dealing with madness, such as those regarding the disintegration of personality, he borrowed from pre-Freudian psychologists (Janet, Binet, Marchesini, etc.). Presumably he also drew inspiration from his literary predecessors, especially from the German Romantics and the Italian Verists whose works abound with episodes or scenes of madness. In the main, however, his art reflects his own personal observations.

  The long and stormy relationship he had with his mad wife, Antonietta, no doubt played a significant role in shaping many of his ideas concerning madness. The sad story, amply reported by the author’s biographers, and often mentioned by his critics, bears repeating here, if only in brief. After suffering nervous breakdowns in 1889 and in 1903, Antonietta began to show symptoms of an acute form of jealousy which eventually was diagnosed as “paranoid schizophrenia.” As the years passed, Pirandello tried desperately to understand his wife’s illness, and even to justify her strange way of reasoning. He also attempted to have her cured by the best psychiatrists available in Italy at that time. All his efforts, however, proved fruitless. Finally, in 1919, because of her increasingly violent behavior, he was forced to have her committed to an asylum for disturbed women. Although paranoia as such is a “conscious” insanity, the poor woman’s mind deteriorated progressively during the years of her confinement, dashing all hopes for her eventual recovery. She remained a patient in the institution until her death in 1959.

  Like most writers, Pirandello depicted true madness — that is, insanity — as an abhorrent condition, obviously because it causes anguish and sometimes even brings death to its victims. But he also viewed it as an enviable state of mind inasmuch as it can provide an escape from an oppressive reality supported by common logic. Indeed, he even considered the mad in a sense to be superior to the sane because, according to a principle he adopted from the philosopher Henri Bergson, life is intrinsically fluid and formless and hence the mad, who are illogical or who employ a whimsical sort of logic, are closer to life.

  The attitudes and behavior of those Pirandellian characters who ape the mad in an effort to elude wretched forms of existence are certainly more comprehensible when viewed in the light of this principle. Among these pseudo-insane heroes, the following figure prominently: Belluca in the short story ll treno ha fischiato… (The Train Whistled…J, who forgets his tribulations by traveling in his imagination to distant places; the unnamed protagonist in the short story La carriola (The Wheelbarrow), who finds relief from his burdensome life by secretly performing an absurd, gratuitous act; and Bareggi in the short story Fuga (Escape), who seeks liberation from his miseries by impulsively fleeing into the countryside on a milkman’s cart.

  Characters such as these suffer from what might be called “metaphysical” madness — certainly the most distinctive, and by far the most common form of derangement to be found in Pirandello’s writings. Tantamount to alienation, this malady, which periodically afflicted the author himself, can be defined as “the painful awareness of life’s apparent absurdity, coupled with the belief that life’s problems are basically unsolvable.” The many characters portrayed as having this sickness of the soul, appear as extremely lucid, but frustrated, creatures, trapped as they are between the demands and desires of their egos and the rules and whims of an incomprehensible, cruel reality. These characters are prone to reason excessively and, instead of simply living, see themselves in the act of li
ving.

  Pirandello knew that this sort of madness is not in itself a clinical illness, but he realized, as is evident in several of his works, that it can have pathological implications and may even degenerate into true insanity. The plight of Fabio Feroni in the short story Paura d’essere felice (Fear of Being Happy) is a case in point. After countless endeavors to improve his position in life, the all-too-logical Feroni eventually becomes obsessed with the notion that “chance” is always lying in wait to catch him in its snare. The obsession ultimately gets the better of him, and consequently he becomes a raving lunatic.

  Pirandello also dealt with madness as a social fiction. As such, it is usually seen as a cruel label which others impose on whoever thinks or acts in an unconventional manner. In fact, the most common insult that Pirandello’s characters fling at one another is the word “pazzo” (madman), which not infrequently is intended as something more than a mere figure of speech.

  An interesting variation of this motif is found in the short story Quando ero matto (When I Was Crazy). Here the protagonist-narrator Fausto Bandini reveals to us that he was considered mad by society because of his uncommon altruism. Ironically, however, he concurs with this judgment, making it his own, now that he has learned to become selfish, and hence “sane”!

  The social fiction of madness also appears as a feigned condition used tactically by an individual in his struggle against society. Although this motif is not developed in Pirandello’s short stories, we should note that it is an important element in the plots of two of his most famous plays, Enrico IV (Henry IV) and II berretto a sonagli (Cap and Bells). In the former work, the tragic hero pretends to be mad, not only to elude the stultifying life reserved for him by society, but also to punish and unmask his hypocritical visitors. In the latter work, Beatrice, one of the main characters, assumes the role of a madwoman to prevent a senseless carnage that otherwise would have been required by a barbarous local code.

  Unifying the author’s varied treatment of madness is his bleak view of the human condition. Hence, whenever we find an instance of folly or unreason in his works — madness in Pirandello is never an end in itself— we also inevitably find the expression of one or more of his somber philosophical concerns, e.g., the confusion of reality and illusion, the tyranny of society, the tension between the public mask and the private face, and the problem of man’s solitude. To be sure, this pessimism was largely inspired by the social, political, and economical turmoil experienced by the bourgeoisie in late 19th and early 20th century Europe, but its scope extends far beyond any specific historical crisis. Strictly speaking, Pirandello was an artist, not a philosopher, but many of his grim reflections still strike chords within us today, given their seemingly universal validity and the harsh realities of our times.

  In conclusion, since Pirandello was a creative thinker as well as a masterful storyteller, and madness itself is an intriguing subject, we should find the tales collected here both aesthetically satisfying and thought-provoking. The characters populating these stories might at first seem rather strange, if not utterly foreign to us, but upon closer examination we cannot fail to see reflected in each of them some of our own illusions, fears, and frustrations, and more importantly, a bit of our own “madness.” The images we perceive, though compellingly interesting, are far from cheerful. Nevertheless, it is only in coming to grips with our total humanity, including the shadowy, irrational dimension of our nature (as mirrored in Pirandello’s art), that there can be any hope for sanity in our world — the authentic sort, which engenders such virtues as tolerance, compassion, sincerity, and love.

  Tales of Madness

  Who Did It?

  Then you tell me who did it, if what I say just makes all of you laugh. But at least free Andrea Sanserra, who is innocent. He didn’t keep our appointment, I repeat for the hundredth time. And now let’s talk about me.

  The proof of my guislt is probably the fact that I returned to Rome in October, right? Whereas the other years I always used to come only once, and that was for the month of June. But then shouldn’t you take into account the fact that this past June my engagement was broken off? In Naples, from July to October, I behaved like a madman, and so much so that my office manager insisted on my taking another month’s vacation right in October. My dream, the dream I had had for so many years, was shattered. And whoever says that I began drinking in Naples in order to forget is a bold-faced liar. I have never drunk wine. I had a pain here in my head that made me delirious and dizzy and made me feel like vomiting. Me, drunk? But of course, little wonder if they are now trying to convince everybody that I’m pretending to be mad in order to excuse myself. Instead, I had foolishly dedicated myself to… yes, to casual relationships in order to get even, or rather I should say, to take revenge for the many years I had fought with my conscience and was faithful and chaste. That I did, and I admit that in doing so I went too far.

  In Rome, at my mother’s house, I again see Andrea Sanserra, whom I had not seen for seven years. He had returned from America two months before. My mother entrusts me to him. We had grown up together as children, and we knew one another better than the poor old woman knew us. In the sanctity of her mind she had a better opinion of us than we actually deserved. She thought we were two angels, we who were twenty-six years old! But I had led her into having this fine opinion by the way I had lived during the five years of my engagement. Enough said. With Andrea I continued along the miserable path that I had taken in Naples three months before. And now I will get to the main issue. One evening he suggests… But first let me tell you that Sanserra didn’t know the person I must now tell you about; he had only heard of her from others. He suggests, as I was saying, that I go meet a — this is the way he expresses himself— a sort of special attraction. He spoke to me about… I can’t tell you exactly what he said; I only recall the visual impression his words made on me: a dark room with a large bed at the foot of which there was a screen; a girl wrapped in a sheet like a ghost; behind the screen an elderly woman, the girl’s aunt, who sat knitting by a small round table; on the table a lamp that projected onto the wall, the enlarged shadow of the old woman with her agile hands in motion. The girl did not speak and hardly let you see her face; instead, it was her aunt who did the talking, recounting to the few faithful clients a world of miseries: her niece was engaged to an outstanding young man who had a well-paying job in northern Italy; their marriage had been called off on account of the dowry; there had been a dowry, but a family tragedy had swallowed it up. They had to make it up, and in a very short time, before the outstanding young man found out. “On the door of that room,” concluded Andrea Sanserra, “one could write ‘heartache’.”

  Naturally, I was tempted. And so Andrea and I planned to meet the following evening at eight thirty, just outside Porta del Popolo. He lives on Via Flaminia. The house of the two women is on Via Laurina; I no longer remember the number.

  It was a Saturday night, and it was raining. Via Flaminia stretched out directly in front of us. It was muddy and illuminated here and there by streetlamps whose light bounced about and vanished under the gusts of wind that shook the dark, rain-pelted trees of Villa Borghese, behind me. Because of the terrible weather, I thought that he would not show up, and yet I could not make up my mind whether or not to leave, and remained there perplexed, gazing at the streams of water falling from all around the edge of my umbrella. Should I go to Via Laurina by myself? No, no… A profound sensation of nausea for the life I had been leading during the past three months won me over at that point. I felt ashamed of myself, abandoned by my companion there on the road to vice. I thought that Andrea probably had gone to spend the evening in an honest house, not suspecting that I was so corrupt as to keep our appointment on such a dreadful evening. And yet, that’s not it, I thought. More than being corrupt, I’m miserable. Where could I go now? And there came to mind the happy peaceful evenings spent with my loved one beside me, my former life, her little house. Oh, Tuda! Tuda! All o
f a sudden, out of the central arch of that city gate there appeared an old man, hunched over, with a cloak reaching down to his ankles. He held up an old tattered umbrella with both hands. He was going down Via Flaminia, almost as if swept along by the wind. I focus my eyes on him… A chill runs through my entire body. Mr. Jacopo, Jacopo Sturzi, Tuda’s father, my ex-fiancèe’s father!… How can it be, if I, I myself, with these hands, a year ago, laid him out in a coffin and accompanied him to Campo Verano cemetery? Yet, lo and behold, there he is. He passes in front of me. Oh, Cod!… And he turns around to look at me, and bends his head to one side as if to let me see his smile. And what a smile! I’m nailed to the ground, gripped by a convulsive tremor. I try to shout, but my voice doesn’t issue from my throat. I follow him a while with my eyes. Finally I manage to overcome my fear, and dash after him.

  Believe me, I beg you. I’m unable to invent a story of this sort. It would be impossible to repeat what he told me word for word; but you can easily understand that certain ideas can’t be produced by my mind, because Jacopo Sturzi, though quite an intemperate man, was a true philosopher, a most original philosopher, and he spoke to me with the wisdom of the dead.

  I caught up with him while he was already about to place his small, trembling hand on the handle of the glass door of a tavern. He swung around, took hold of my arm, and, dragging me over into the shady darkness, said:

  “Luzzi, for heaven’s sake, please don’t say I’m alive!”

  “Why, how… you?” I stuttered.

  “Yes, I’m dead, Luzzi,” he added, “but my bad habit, you understand, is stronger! I’ll explain right away. There are those who, when they die, are mature for another life, and those who are not. The former die and never again return, because they have succeeded in finding their way… The latter instead return, because they were unable to find it; and naturally they seek it right where they lost it. For me, that’s here, in the tavern. But it’s not like you think. It’s my punishment. I drink, and it’s as if I’m not drinking, because the more I drink, the thirstier I become. And then, as you can readily understand, I can’t afford to treat myself too lavishly.”